


Chuck

by LonghornLetters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Food Poisoning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock should really know that Thai food and trench foot don't really mix.  It's OK, though, he's got John to keep him right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glow_in_the_dark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glow_in_the_dark/gifts).



> This little thing was a prompt from glow_in_the_dark. She described what she originally planned as: sick fic that never got anywhere but one that I would love to go somewhere, lol. I just wanted to write Sherlock completely miserable and John coming to the rescue and being adorable in his patience with a crook Sherlock. That and I REALLY love the title, lmfao. 
> 
> So that's where I came in. I had a tremendous amount of fun writing this, and I hope the finished product does your idea justice.

John came awake as completely and suddenly as if someone had shouted his name. He glanced over at the clock on the nightstand before collapsing back onto the pillows. Three in the bloody morning. Why did he need to be awake right now? John flung his arm out to the side of the bed that would normally contain his flatmate, well boyfriend now, but his fingers only encountered cool, undisturbed sheets. This wasn’t unusual; Sherlock normally stayed up until all hours contemplating cases or experiments, but somehow tonight’s absence felt wrong. John got his answer as he rolled back over to try to get back to sleep and was greeted with the sounds of retching coming from their bathroom.

He dragged himself out of bed and went to go see what had happened to Sherlock this time.

Wincing as his bare feet met the icy tiles of the bathroom floor, John flipped on the overhead light and was met with the sight of six feet of consulting detective wound around the toilet as he heaved his guts into the bowl.

“What’s wrong?” John asked from the doorway blinking at Sherlock hunched in abject misery over the toilet.

“What does it bloody look like?” Sherlock shot back as his intestines lurched and more of his stomach contents made a reappearance.

John stepped quickly into the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub behind Sherlock. Once he was situated, he began rubbing broad and wide circles into Sherlock's upper back as the detective wrapped himself around the toilet bowl and heaved whatever he had eaten out of the fridge just a few hours ago back out.

"Shh shh shhh…" He soothed as he continued to gently massage his lover’s back.

"I'm not a chi-ld-" Sherlock tried to protest, but he was cut off by his stomach rebelling against the rest of his transport. Apparently its main protest centered around the fact that Sherlock couldn't keep body parts next to uncovered food and then eat said food and not expect _something_ bad to happen. Once he finished, Sherlock slumped back against the tub and breathed slowly through his nose hoping the worst was behind him.

“Tell me what happened” John said good-naturedly as he moved over to the sink to wet a flannel and fill a glass with water. Once he was repositioned back on the edge of the tub, he passed Sherlock the water and began to run the cool flannel across the back of Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

“I put the leftover Thai food in the refrigerator, but apparently our fridge is defective as it failed to keep the food at a sanitary temperature until I went back to eat it. Now you see the result.”

“Wait, what shelf did you put it on?” John asked, hoping against hope his memory was faulty and Sherlock hadn’t put it where he thought he’d seen it.

“The middle shelf” was the reply that got cut off by the latest wave of nausea. Sherlock groaned as he did little more than spit bile into the toilet, his stomach long empty but apparently unwilling to give up the fight. 

John smacked Sherlock across the back of his head with the flannel, “Why in the creeping Jesus would you put it on that shelf? I know for a fact that’s the shelf where you’ve got those gangrenous feet marinating in that pie plate full of Thames mud. Jesus bloody Christ, Sherlock, no wonder you’re chucking everywhere.”

Sherlock snatched the flannel back and snarled, “If you’re not going to help, then go back to bed. I’ll be fine here.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a bit late to point out that storing food on the same shelf as a bloody _biohazard_ is a recipe for disaster.”

“Yes, thank you,” came the reply from under the flannel. John could practically _hear_ the eye roll that doubtlessly accompanied the verbal response. 

“Oh, love,” John laughed and shook his head as he resumed rubbing Sherlock’s back. “I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?”

“Unless you can turn back time and make this not happen, I think palliative care is all I can really expect.” Sherlock grimaced as another wave of stomach cramps passed through him, but this one was less intense and nothing in his stomach tried to make a bid for freedom. He leaned back against the crook formed by John’s legs and the tub and repositioned the flannel over his eyes.

“No fever then?” John asked dreading the idea of having to completely decontaminate the kitchen to prevent contracting some hideous water-borne illness. Sherlock shook his head.

“Well that’s a relief, but you need to either put those feet in an airtight container or bin them today” John said while he kept rubbing Sherlock’s back as they sat together in the quiet of the early morning.

“I’ve finished with them and disposed of them properly. You can read my analysis on the development of trench foot versus warm water immersion foot conditions on my website at your leisure.”

“I think I’ll give that one a miss, thanks,” John responded with a grimace. John began absently humming some song he had heard on Britain’s Got Talent while he continued to smooth his hand across Sherlock’s back and shoulders and occasionally prod at the glass Sherlock still clutched in his hands to make him drink it. They lapsed into a companionable silence as John resettled himself more comfortably on the edge of the tub and Sherlock rested his head against John’s legs. Eventually, his breathing began to deepen and even out as his stomach truly began to settle.

Sherlock, who had been slowly sipping the water, set the now empty glass down on the bathroom floor and peeked at John from under the damp flannel. John’s expressive face was set firmly in lines of concern as he gazed down at Sherlock seated on the cold tile. John, in full on doctor mode, picked up the glass and refilled it before grabbing Sherlock’s toothbrush and putting just a little dab of toothpaste on it. Returning to his station on the tub’s edge, he moved the flannel to the back of Sherlock’s neck and passed the toothbrush over.

“This might make you feel a bit better,” John offered in response to Sherlock’s skeptical side eye. “You’ve not tried to throw up in the past ten minutes, so you’re probably through the worst of it.”

Sherlock took the toothbrush, incredulous face still in place, and jammed it in his mouth. He started brushing slowly, but quickly picked up speed as the cool mint spread through his mouth and began to cut through the sour taste of stomach acid. John laughed when Sherlock didn’t even bother to stand up to use the sink, choosing instead to spit directly into the toilet. John passed him a new glass of water that he used to rinse the final traces of toothpaste and bile from his mouth.

“Why don’t you jump in the shower and rinse off,” John suggested as he eyed Sherlock’s clammy skin. “It’ll probably make you feel better, and then we can go lay down and try to get some rest.”

Sherlock nodded as he clambered to his feet and began stripping off his pyjamas. John turned on the shower and tested the water then moved aside to let Sherlock step under the spray. He laughed at the audible sigh of satisfaction coming from inside the shower.

“How did you know I was in here? You’re a sound sleeper and I was actively trying not to disturb you.” Sherlock asked over the splash of water.

John blinked at the seeming non sequitur before he replied, “It must be a doctor thing. I woke up and even though it doesn’t usually alarm me that you’re up puttering about at all hours, this time it just felt _off_. Plus, sometimes when people are actively trying to be quiet, they make the most noise. Plus, if you're sick, I want to be able to help you.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock simply hummed in agreement. The water cut out and Sherlock emerged and swaddled himself in a towel.

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock plunked a new glass of water down on the nightstand and decided to forgo pyjamas in favor of slipping down between the cool cotton sheets completely bare. John cracked the window to let a bit of a breeze into the bedroom before he stripped down to his pants and climbed in. As he settled onto his back, Sherlock wiggled up under his arm and came to rest with his arm around John’s waist and his head on John’s chest. John smiled into the darkness, combing the fingers of his free hand through Sherlock’s damp hair as they lapsed into sleepy silence together.

“John,” Sherlock whispered into the quiet, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

**~~END~~**

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first crack at writing for this fandom full of such lovely, talented people. I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
